by James Hannah
Mal laughs dirtily at the ceiling. ‘That tells you all you need to know about him, doesn’t it? Made him sick? I bet he gets home and whips himself every night after work.’
‘Ha! Yeah.’ I begin whipping myself with an imaginary lash. ‘I must not let anyone spell diaphragm wrong.’
Mal cracks up, satisfyingly. ‘I must not glance down the girls’ tops and rub one out in the staff toilet at break time.’
‘Wet break,’ I say.
Mal laughs and points at me. ‘You’re a funny lad!’
I laugh myself and bask in the glory. Try desperately to think of something else funny to back it up with, but nothing comes.
Kelvin’s still standing, leaning against the door frame and nursing his can of Coke. He laughs a gurgly laugh. ‘I must not ever let anyone get away with anything!’
The laughter expires, and Mal sets about twisting and mashing up the machine-made cigarette, emptying its contents into the fresh flat paper, before crumbling gear carefully and fairly up and down it.
‘So what’s this about your dad then?’ says Mal.
‘Oh, he died of cancer when I was six.’
‘Ah man, really?’
‘Yeah, that’s kind of why I did it, because I knew he wouldn’t want to push it too far.’
‘Ah, mate,’ says Kelvin, frowning, ‘that’s well low.’
‘What?’
‘It’s well sick, using your dad like that.’
‘Is it?’
‘No, it’s not, man, it’s genius,’ says Mal, compacting the mix, and rolling the loaded skin back and forth in his fingertips.
‘Ah no, not my style,’ says Kelvin, crouching down in the doorway and eyeing the joint with increasing nervousness.
‘The dad thing makes you untouchable. And, you know, it’s a shitty thing to happen to anyone, so if you can make it work for you, I think that’s a smart thing to do. It’s not like you haven’t earned it, is it?’
Mal dabs a piece of cardboard from the fag packet into the skin as a roach.
‘So what about you then?’ Kelvin asks Mal. ‘What made your dad and mum come down here?’
‘The old man got reassigned to a new parish.’
‘Your old man’s a vicar?’ says Kelvin.
Mal doesn’t answer, but pulls a sarcastic face, like the question is beneath contempt.
‘Wow, that must be really interesting,’ says Kelvin.
‘Yeah? Why’s that then?’
‘I don’t know,’ says Kelvin, a little unsettled. ‘All the confessions he’ll get to hear or whatever.’
‘Sounds like you already know all there is to know about it.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Confessions is just Catholics, I think,’ I say, quietly.
‘Oh. Is that different from …’ He peters out.
‘So have you moved around a lot then?’ I ask.
‘Yeah, following the old man’s mission,’ says Mal, moodily. He looks up at me. ‘Do you want to swap dads?’
I meet his gaze briefly.
This is Mal all over. He’s not afraid to go there.
I laugh ruefully. ‘No, you’re all right.’
‘And now from the glorious north down to this shithole,’ he says, stretching and yawning.
‘Do you miss being up there, then?’ says Kelvin.
Just when I think he couldn’t ask a dumber question.
I’m definitely a bit pissed.
‘I’ll miss the parties,’ says Mal.
‘What did you get for your GCSEs?’ asks Kelvin.
‘Eleven A’s.’
‘Bullshit.’
‘Yep.’
‘Eleven?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Fucking hell!’ Kelvin looks at me with moronic enthusiasm. ‘I only got one A, and I only did ten GCSEs.’
Mal shrugs, making his leather jacket creak. ‘It’s not hard to get all A’s if all you want to do is get all A’s … Just learn how they want you to learn, predict how they’re going to ask the questions. It’s no big secret, is it? But I’m like, fuck it. Not interested. Don’t want no tests no more.’
‘But you’re doing your A levels.’
‘No tests no more.’
‘Are you going to quit then?’
‘I haven’t decided. I was thinking about getting a place in town maybe, get out of here. Start up a few things. I’ve got some ideas.’
Mal runs the paper along his tongue-tip and seals it shut. Mal, master joiner. Never too tight. Meticulous mix.
He draws out his Zippo from his jeans pocket.
Flick, flick and flame.
‘Right, now, who wants this?’
He passes it to Kelvin, who pauses just long enough to look uncomfortable before taking it at fingertips’ length. He begins to suck on the end. A bit of smoke in his mouth, quickly blown out.
‘No, man, come on, stop fucking about,’ says Mal.
‘What?’
‘You’re not doing it right.’ He lifts the joint back off him. ‘Now,’ he says, invoking his most imperious Mr Miller impression, ‘if you remember your diaphragm, which is this membrane at the bottom of your chest here–’ he jabs Kelvin in the chest ‘–you need to pull down on it to draw the smoke–’ he takes a deep toke, holds, and exhales ‘–into your lungs and out. Into your lungs and out.’
Poor Kelvin. It’s so obvious he’s never done this before. I watch carefully as Mal shows him how it’s done. I’ve only smoked a couple of Laura’s fags, but I think I’ll get away with it.
Everything we do is glacially slow.
Seriously, I’m not sitting on this beanbag any more. I’m properly flat on the floor, and my head is planted where I’d been sitting. I can hear all the little beans inside tumbling over each other: delicately, impossibly light.
I look over at Mal and squint. Blink a bit to see if I can make more sense of it, somehow.
Kelvin’s standing again, looking down on us from the doorway.
‘Listen,’ says Kelvin, ‘I’m going to go, all right? I’ve got–’
‘You not want any of this?’ says Mal, holding up the second joint.
‘Nah, thanks, man, I’ve got my own at home, I’m going to go and – got stuff to do.’ He looks at me. ‘Are you coming?’
‘No. I don’t want to,’ I say. ‘I feel too nice here.’
This is so nice. I’m exquisitely comfortable.
‘I’m never going to move again,’ says Mal. ‘I just want to be sucked into the sofa.’
He starts giggling goofily, and I start retching laughs.
We sit there with the TV turned off for another lovely long age. It doesn’t matter. It’s an impossible distance away.
‘Well, I’m going to go, I think,’ says Kelvin. I look over at the doorway, and he’s still there. I thought he’d gone ages ago.
No one’s going to try and talk him into staying. No one should have to talk anyone round to anything.
It’s getting to the point with Kelvin where – I don’t know – I just don’t say anything in case it makes him talk more. I don’t want talk, just want to say sssshhhh. But that seems to make him anxious, which makes him jabber.
‘I’ll see you around,’ says Kelvin.
‘Bye, Kelv.’
Three’s a bad, bad number for friends. The two gang up on the one, it’s always the way. Two’s company, three’s a political situation. Just make sure you’re one of the two.
It’s good he’s gone.
I feel a bit bad, but it’s good for everyone.
‘Knock, knock,’ says Sheila, knock-knocking on my door frame. ‘How are we doing? Oh, that’s much better, your breathing sounds a lot easier now, doesn’t it? Come on, let’s get that mask off you, so we can see how you do without it.’
She prises the mask from me, and I stretch my clammy face, run my fingers over my cheeks to feel for mask marks.
‘There we go. I’ll leave it here for you, OK?’
‘OK.’
/> ‘I’ll get Dr Sood to come in and have a look at you in the morning, see if there’s anything else we can do to make it a bit easier for you.’
‘OK.’
She unclips my chart from the end of the bed, draws a biro out of her white-piped pocket, and begins to gnaw unsanitarily on the lid. ‘What are we going to do with you, eh?’
‘I don’t know. Listen, Sheila – can you make it so that I don’t get any more visitors? I don’t – I don’t want to see anyone.’
She looks up at me, over the top of the clipboard.
‘Are you going to tell me what this is all about then?’
‘What?’
‘Well, when one of my people gets into a lather about a simple little trip round the garden, I like to try and get a handle on why that might possibly be.’
She peers at me intently with her bottomless black irises.
‘Just – good old family baggage.’
‘Was that your brother then?’
‘Kelvin? Ah, no, no. He’s playing dogsbody for my sister.’
‘Things – a little bit tricky back there?’
‘Little bit.’
She frowns, and looks back down at my notes.
‘Things with your sister?’
‘Little bit.’
She bats the clipboard flat against her chest. ‘Tricky enough that you want to sever all ties?’
I close my eyes and sigh.
‘Look, I know what you’re getting at. But it’s for the best. We’ve said all we’ve got to say to each other.’
‘It’s not for me to judge, Ivo. You’ll know better than me, I’m sure.’
She slots the clipboard back in place, repockets the biro, and comes round to half-sit at the end of the bed.
‘Let me take you through what I’m thinking,’ she says. ‘What I’m thinking is, here is a man, he’s not well, and he’s clearly not happy. Now, it’s none of my business, but I’m here for a reason. If you don’t want to see anyone, that’s up to you. Whatever you want, that’s what I do.’
‘Right.’
‘But you’ve got to know, if you refuse all visitors, that means something to us. That sends us a message. Dr Sood will come in here in the morning, and he and I will have a chat about all the cases, and he’ll look at your notes, and he’ll say, Oh, refused all visitors, and he’ll draw certain conclusions from that.’
‘Yeah, I know.’
‘It’s just my job to let you know that. I mean, there are a lot of things we offer, to help people out when they’re having dark thoughts. I can arrange one of our counsellors to come along and have a chat at any time.’
‘No – no thanks.’
‘Just so long as you know I’m here to help. I’m here to help you get what you need.’
‘It is: it’s what I want.’
She smiles at me, and holds up her hands. ‘OK,’ she says, ‘OK. I’ll see what I can do. Just, do me a favour: don’t close yourself off completely. Any fool can be unhappy. Cutting yourself off from absolutely everyone – well, it’s very tempting, I know – but sometimes it’s not for the best. Sometimes you’ve got to try a little bit, so you can feel better.’
I frown at the wall, fractionally. It sounds like the sort of thing you’d say. I can hear you saying it.
‘I don’t want to see anyone,’ I say, in a measured tone.
‘OK, lovey. I’ll put the word in on reception.’
I look up at her and nod. ‘Thank you.’
‘Your wish is my command,’ she smiles, standing and brushing imagined crumbs from her trousers. ‘But listen, Ivo. You can be as grumpy as you like with me; I’ll keep on coming back. Just – just don’t leave anything unsaid to the people who matter. It only takes a few words to change your world.’
It’s quieter in here today. Something’s not quite right – people’s rhythms are different. Sheila’s not dropped in as many times, and when she has she’s been giving off different signals. Busy, busy. I’ve been thinking she’s avoiding me because I was short with her. She’s very businesslike.
But I’m starting to realize it’s not me on their minds. The signals beyond my doorway, out there in the corridor, they’re starting to become clear.
The breathing from Old Faithful next door has become more laboured. It’s lost its body. Sounds like a kazoo, exhaustedly huffed.
Hzzzzzzzz, hzzzzzzzzz, hzzzzzzzz
It’s constant, but weary. Weary clown.
Is that a rattle? Is that what they call a death rattle?
Hzzzzzzzzzz
Death rattle, deathbed – all these words accumulated from somewhere. Sometime. All the experiences from all the bedside farewells across the centuries. All point here, to these sounds, these feelings, these signals in here now.
Sheila has a respectful professionalism about her. She keeps conversation to a minimum, and her serious face only looks in on me from time to time to deliver medicine or adjust the blinds. Her amiable meanderings have straightened out into a purposeful efficiency. It makes it all so quiet, like a subdued Sunday. I’m only aware of the swish of her trousers and an occasional ankle click to mark her advance on a target.
Hzzzzzzzzzz
Old Faithful’s husband was camped out in the visitors’ waiting room all last night. Square-looking unfashionable Japanese man, roughly of retirement age, but still dressed in a crumpled work shirt and tie. He wanders aimlessly, waiting, eking out the time. The kind of walk you see people pacing out on train platforms when there’s no train. Waiting, waiting. The walk of the dead.
Hzzzzzzzzzzz
He walks past my doorway once more, glances in. I try to catch his eye to give a reassuring smile. I don’t know why. There’s nothing I can do to reassure him. Perhaps I mean: This is going to happen, and you’ll be all right.
He returns my smile with a nod. Good, that’s good.
He moves on.
I look out the window once more, to the magnolia tree. There’s no robin so far today. But look at it, I could gaze at it for ever, in late bloom as it is. I like them when they’re a little tighter, getting ready to reveal themselves. Better suited to a Japanese garden maybe, all clean lines. But beautiful, beautiful.
Hzzzzzzzzzzz
‘All the nurses here are very nice ladies.’ I look up. Mr Old Faithful has stopped on his way back past my doorway.
‘Sorry?’
‘All the nurses here are very nice ladies.’ He ventures in.
‘Yes, yes,’ I say. ‘The best.’
‘They have looked after my daughter and me very well. They have a good understanding of the stresses. They are very supportive.’
I nod and smile.
‘Are you being looked after well?’ he asks.
‘Yes, yes. They are very good here. Can’t do enough for you. Whatever you ask for.’
‘Yes,’ he says. ‘Yes.’
Then his face collapses almost comically, his nostrils flare and his mouth tightens.
I don’t know what to do.
‘Sorry, sorry,’ he says. He looks to leave, but he’s nowhere to go, so he stays where he is, forced to compose himself. ‘Sorry, sorry. It’s hard. I’m here, you know, with my daughter, and we’re just watching her mother slip away. I don’t know what I’m going to do. A father is a very poor substitute for a mother.’
‘That’s really sad,’ I say. ‘I’m really sorry.’
‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘You understand.’
‘I do.’
‘This cancer is a very awful disease,’ he says. ‘It’s evil. It’s hard to believe that there’s no more they can do. We thought she was getting better. She had been given the all-clear. So we allowed ourselves to hope. She started to regain weight. She started to look a bit more like she used to look. But the cancer came back. You can’t ever drop your guard. I worked too hard. We didn’t have enough time to enjoy ourselves. When we realized what was happening, she wasn’t well enough to enjoy herself. I worked too hard.’
; I want to help this man, but I honestly don’t know what to say.
His daughter appears at the door with two mugs.
‘Papa?’ she murmurs in a barely audible undertone. She can see he has been crying, and comes over to him. She proffers the mug and looks shyly over at me. I nod and purse my lips, indicating – something.
He accepts the mug and takes a couple of attempts to get the correct number of fingers through the unfamiliar handle. A teacup man. ‘Sorry, I was just–’ He looks over at me. ‘This is my daughter, Amber.’
‘Hello,’ I say.
‘Hiya,’ she says.
She looks brilliant. Rich black hair with a deep blue streak. Eyeliner, in the same way that I remember you wearing it. The swash. I struggle to meet her with the right sort of look. Beautiful, clear, lively eyes. Part Japanese, part not. Striking.
What am I? Flirting?
It’s all I know how to do. A reflex action. She’s exactly like you were. Confident. Confident enough to say ‘hiya’, to look me in the eye.
She can’t be eighteen. Less than half my age.
‘Are you both coping?’ I ask. ‘As much as you can, at least?’
‘Once you know what to expect each day, it’s better,’ says Amber, throwing a look at her dad. ‘You get a routine.’
‘Yeah. Routines are good. Uncertainty is almost the worst thing,’ I say.
‘It’s rubbish,’ she says. ‘But the nurses here – I mean, they’ve been brilliant. We’re so lucky. She could have been in the hospital, and we didn’t want that. This is nicer than the hospital. We trust them with – with my mum.’
Even from the way she’s standing, I can see she’s the one in charge. Only a teenager, but she’s carrying her dad along with her. As she talks he looks disconsolately out of the window at the tree and the lawn beyond.
‘Anyway, you shouldn’t be asking us how we are,’ she says. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘Oh, it’s much easier to worry about others,’ I say. ‘Every time I see a doctor, my first question is always How are you? I worry that they’re too overworked to see me. I worry about Sheila. Have you met Sheila?’
‘I love Sheila,’ says Amber. ‘She’s amazing. Always there. Knows exactly the right thing to say. Things seem to be a bit more cheery after you’ve seen Sheila.’